


King Under Us In Narnia

by hydrangea



Category: Chronicles of Narnia - C. S. Lewis
Genre: AU: Peter arrives separately to Narnia in 'Prince Caspian', M/M, War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-25
Updated: 2017-08-25
Packaged: 2018-12-19 18:35:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,732
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11903751
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hydrangea/pseuds/hydrangea
Summary: ”Look sharp!” shouted Edmund. ”All catch hands and keep together. This is magic -- I can tell by the feeling. Quick!”-- In which Peter arrives alone to Narnia and meets Caspian.





	King Under Us In Narnia

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Snacky](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Snacky/gifts).



> Beta'ed by the Bunny

_”Look sharp!” shouted Edmund. ”All catch hands and keep together. This is magic -- I can tell by the feeling. Quick!”_

Peter grabbed Lucy’s hand. His body thrummed with the magic in the air and his breath seemed caught in his chest. He turned his head this way and that, searching for something, though he didn’t know what.

There!

A sharp movement in the corner of his eye. He twisted around… and lost his grip on Lucy’s hand.

The world went bright and then green.

Peter attempted to stay on his feet as the ground seemed to move beneath his feet. His foot caught on a root and at the next flash of light his weight shifted, and he sprawled on the ground. His head hit a rock and, for a moment, Peter didn’t know whether him seeing black was due to the blow to his head or the lack of light filtering through the heavy foliage above.

Then long-forgotten instincts made themselves known and, caught up in the moment, Peter rolled to his feet. His hand fumbled for his sword but only found the fabric of his jumper.

That was right. He didn’t wear a sword in England. He didn’t know if his schoolboy arms could even lift Rhindon as they were, weak from lack of practice and the powerful air of Narnia.

A loud noise.

Peter turned and peered into the dark spaces between tree trunks and low-growing shrubs. It had come from his left, far above his head. He ducked behind the tree to which the root that had hooked his foot belonged and pressed himself against the trunk. There was no telling where he was—though Narnia seemed the most logical option. He didn’t know what came crashing towards him, barrelling through whatever was in front of it without being hindered by branches and undergrowth. Then, he recognised one of the sounds: hoofbeats.

“Calm, Destrier!” he heard a voice shout. “Calm!”

Not unfamiliar with horses, Peter thought that shouting might very well have the opposite reaction to what its rider – who was either a boy around Peter’s age or a girl with a low voice judging from the timber – intended.

Unable to stand idly by when help was needed, Peter darted out from behind the tree as the beast crashed out of the woods and flung himself in front of the horse, arms held out wide. “Ho!” he said, no louder than his normal speaking voice. “Ho, friend!”

The horse threw itself to the side, trying to avoid him. The rider, unprepared for the sudden change of speed, went flying. Caught between options, Peter focused on the horse. He suppressed his need to check on the fallen rider—it would do neither of them good if the horse trampled the rider in his fright. It had stopped, flanks heaving and the whites of its eyes showing.

Peter moved sideways - slowly, so as not to startle the horse. “Ho,” he said again, using his softest voice. Then, remembering the name the rider had used, he added: “Destrier.”

He approached, step by step, speaking nonsense in the calmest voice he could muster. Then, when he was close enough, he took the reins. The horse twitched, but Peter kept talking and as he reached out to slide his hand in slow circles over its neck and side, it calmed.

As soon as he dared, Peter hooked the reins over a branch and left the horse to nip at shrubs and grass. It wouldn’t hold it if the horse got spooked again, but the priority now was the rider.

It was a boy. Peter estimated his age to be near his own, perhaps a bit younger. His hair was short and curly, cropped much like Peter’s own had been as a warrior king. This boy was not a warrior however, even though his hands and wrists spoke of sword work. The musculature a soldier develops wasn’t there and the boy’s clothing was much too fine for a common warrior. If anything, he reminded Peter of the aspiring knight lordlings come to Cair Paravel from Archenland for seasoning during the Giant Wars.

The boy had remained still as Peter patted him down for wounds or broken bones, finding none. A quick look at his face said the boy was still out. He must have had quite a knock on the head. 

Peter took a deep breath. “By Aslan,” he murmured. He hoped the boy hadn’t cracked his head open – he was no Lucy with a cordial. The best he could do was field medicine – and that rarely was enough with head injuries.

He gingerly parted the boy’s curls, feeling along his scalp. When he found nothing at the front, he lifted the boy’s head onto his thigh and ran his fingers over the back. “Well, you have quite a goose egg,” he told the boy, “but nothing seems to be bleeding. I would say you’re quite lucky.”

Moonlight found its way through the branches and, briefly, Peter could see the boy’s features.

 _Oh_.

Then he looked away. There would be none of that now. He had a horse and a boy to take care of after all. The stirrings he hadn’t felt for a long time could wait until later.

 “By Aslan’s Mane!” he told himself. “I do wish that I had Lucy and her Cordial here with me.”

The shrubs to the side rustled.

Peter once again reached for the sword he didn’t carry, and, when he realized his error, put himself between the noise and the boy. It sounded like a scuffle – a branch broke and there was a hiss of pain. He though he heard something whisper, “He said it _twice_!”, and then the branches parted before the lumbering shape of a large badger, walking on its hind legs and looking at Peter as if it was Christmas.

“Excuse me, young man,” it said, “but did I hear you swear by Aslan?”

 

The pain hit Caspian. It felt not unlike when he had slammed his head into a banister as a child and spent the better part of a day in his bed throwing up. He groaned and tried to open his eyes, just to close them again as the light made the urge to be sick grow worse. The brief glimpse, however, had told him enough: he was not in the woods anymore, but neither was he surrounded by the stone walls of the castle.

“He’s awake,” a low voice said.

Caspian didn’t think he imagined that the voice would have rather have said “it” than “he”.

“Oh, good,” another voice exclaimed. “I was beginning to worry. Here, Trumpkin! Hold this!”

Something that was not a hand eased beneath his head and supported him upwards at an angle. He felt the cold edge of a clay cup against his lips. It seemed to be tea – it was warm and smelled like spicy earth and something leafy. It tasted much the same way and the heat seemed to ease the ache in his head. When there was no more tea to be had, he felt well enough to dare open his eyes.

There was a young - Caspian hesitated to call him “boy” – man; there was something about his face or perhaps his expression that made him seem like something _more_. Perhaps the intentness of his eyes, or experience that seemed odd on someone of his age.  He was sitting between Caspian and the rest of the room they were in. Someone else was moving behind the young man, but Caspian couldn’t see them. It was almost as if he was being blocked from the sight of them.

“Glad to see that you're awake.” The young man smiled and took Caspian’s hand.

Caspian flushed and had to fight to meet the young man’s eyes. He didn’t know why, but it felt as if he was meeting someone of great renown.

“I’m Peter,” Peter continued. “You had an accident with your horse—“

Caspian sat straight up. “Destrier—how’s my—“

Peter frowned and put his hands on Caspian’s shoulders, easing him back onto the bedding. “Destrier is fine. He’s been taken care of and is grazing in a nearby glen.”

Glen? Suddenly, Caspian was aware that it wasn’t as much a room that he was in as a hole in the ground. Then, as Peter leaned back again, Caspian caught sight of the creature that had to be the one that had helped him drink tea. He froze.

Peter followed his gaze. “That is Trufflehunter. The dwarves are Trumpkin and Nikabrik.”

“Old Narnians…” Caspian gasped.

“Narnians!” the dwarf that Peter had called Nikabrik snarled.

Peter held up a hand and the dwarf subsided. “Don’t call them ‘Old Narnians’,” he cautioned Caspian. “It’s very impolite. Trufflehunter says that you’re a Telmarine—would you mind telling us your name?”

Without thinking, Caspian said, “Caspian.”

That, of course, was when everything went sideways.

 

By Trufflehunter’s stove there was a small corner with a rocking chair that Peter could only just fit into, being of roughly the same width as the Badger. He no doubt looked very silly indeed, but he found that with tea in his hand and a plate of biscuits resting on a stool next to him, none of the others would disturb him.

At present Trufflehunter was cleaning up after tea, while Trumpkin muttered over his weapons and Nikabrik sat in a corner and looked as if his entire world had changed and nothing, himself most definitely included, was the same. Caspian was the only one near Peter, having settled with a blanket on the bedding laid out for him. He looked a bit wild-eyed still, even though a few days had passed since his awakening, and the nearness to Peter seemed to ease his mind.

Peter wished very much that someone would ease _his_ mind.

It was very much like Aslan to land him in a Narnia under a rule that was no good for her people, but he wished that He had seen fit to let him be with his siblings. From the tales told by Trufflehunter – aided by Trumpkin and Nikabrik – it seemed as if he had once again been put in the situation of needing to put a rightful King on a throne taken by a despot. Of course, this time, the throne was not his, and he did not have the aid of his siblings.

He hoped very much that his siblings were safe, wherever they were.

“Your Majesty?”

Caspian looked as if he regretted calling for Peter’s attention. It was a trait that he needed to rid himself of, Peter mused. A King needed to be assertive and sure of himself.

“Peter,” he corrected Caspian. “You are King under me, and do not need to speak formally to me should I request it.”

Caspian blushed – and Peter had to stifle a smile. Then Caspian’s eyes sharpened and he looked much more like the King that he needed to be for his country.

“Can we do this?” Caspian asked. “Can we truly defeat my uncl—Miraz?”

That was indeed the question. Peter sighed and put down the tea. “It much depends on what troops we can raise. Nikabrik and Trumpkin’s estimates are promising, but neither yours nor their numbers are reliable. We need to organise, we need to scout, and we need to find a place to gather – Aslan’s How seems the logical place.” He still hadn’t quite accepted what they had done to the Stone Table—Lucy and Susan would shudder to see it. “We will know in a few days, I suppose.”

Caspian nodded. “I want to take back my throne. I want to give Narnia back to her people.”

Peter clapped his shoulder. “Then I believe we’re at a good start.”

He didn’t miss that his words had an effect on the others in the room as well. It was good—they would need all the loyalty and spirit they could muster.

 

The morning air was thick with the scent of blossom and dew-soaked pine needles. Outside for the first time since his fall, Caspian breathed in deeply. He looked up and caught a sunbeam on his face. The gentle warmth suffused his body from head to toe and filled him with strength.

“The glen is just beyond the blackberry bramble,” Peter said, as he came out to join him.

Caspian shivered at his voice. The strange variation in how Peter pronounced vowels never failed to make him pay attention. Even if the strange air around Peter hadn't marked him as something other than Telmarine, his way of speaking would have revealed him as such. It wasn’t unpleasant. Indeed, Caspian rather… liked it.

“That’s where you tethered Destrier?” he asked.

Peter appeared behind him, close enough that Caspian could feel his body heat against his back. He twitched, leant in, and then took a quick step away, flushed. Peter took no notice—though Caspian rather thought it must be impossible he _hadn’t_ noticed.

“Yes,” Peter said. “I’ve kept an eye on him— you and I will ride pillion today, I think. For all that we are the tallest creatures here; we’re also likely to be the slowest.”

Caspian couldn’t stop himself from glancing at Nikabrik and Trumpkin, standing on a side each of the entrance to Trufflehunter’s home, not speaking.

Peter laughed. “Dwarves can walk all day and all night without tiring—and keep pace at that.”

“Aye,” Nikabrik said—reluctantly pleased, Caspian thought. “Your majesty knows Dwarves.”

“Many Black and Red Dwarves fought by Our side in the wars,” Peter said, distant somehow. “Only a fool would discount one.”

Nikabrik nodded, once, a deep emotion in his eyes that Caspian could not identify as he looked at Peter. Then Caspian turned and looked at Peter as well and thought that he at least could guess what. Despite Peter’s age, Caspian didn’t think that even Miraz would dare to underestimate him.

 

There were signs of scouts in the woods between the Dancing Lawn and Miraz’s main encampments. Squirrels had reported that there had been troop movements to the south as well. Miraz was trying to lock them in. Peter had sent Trumpkin back to Aslan’s How to notify Edmund and Susan the moment they had heard.

Their ploy had worked. Miraz’s troops would be tied up in the mountains attempting to surround what they perceived to be Caspian’s base encampment while Susan and Edmund saw to the fortification of Aslan’s How.

Peter gritted his teeth at a sharp prick of fear. They still did not know where Lucy was. Two weeks had passed since she disappeared in the middle of the night. Edmund thought she had gone with Aslan; Susan was not as sure. Neither of them liked to talk of that night. Peter wanted to knock their heads together, but knew better than to do so. They needed to stay united as Kings and Queens, not squabble like siblings.

Someone made a deliberate noise as they approached Peter’s secluded spot at the edge of the woods where the Lawn opened up. Peter forced his shoulders to relax and turned—and then he no longer needed to force anything.

“Caspian,” he welcomed him. “Escaped from Trufflehunter’s care?”

Caspian had taken a glancing blow during a sortie the previous day, opening a gash that looked ugly but was little more than a scratch. At first sight, Peter had nearly shouted at him for not dropping back to the medics; he had realised it was mostly dried blood soon after. It had not stopped his hands from trembling as he set to cleaning the wound as they waiting for one of Trufflehunter’s lot to finish with the more gravely wounded.

Caspian held up his neatly bandaged arm. “As good as new.” He winced a little. “It won’t be pleasant to fight for a few more days however.”

For someone who had never been to war, Caspian was doing well. He had a good solid education in the theoretical art of war and as he became more experienced, he was growing into a solid leader. Peter would have been glad to have him at his side for that alone, if he had not been glad for much more personal reasons.

Caspian dropped onto the ground to lean against a tree. After a moment of hesitation, Peter joined him. When Caspian reached for Peter’s hand, he nearly didn’t let Caspian take it, but in the end he did.

“I’ve been wondering,” Caspian said, turning Peter’s hand over. “You have said you do not practise the sword in… England? However, you have calluses that would take years to form and maintain.”

Peter looked at Caspian’s hand where it folded around his. Dark against pale – his Narnian tan had not returned as easy as his calluses. “I don’t know how this is.” He shrugged. “Only Aslan knows why.”

“Aslan…” Caspian sighed. “I wish I could meet him.”

So do we all, Peter thought to himself. Maybe then he would learn what had happened to Lucy. Perhaps then he would know whether they had a chance in this war of theirs.

They remained under the tree until Nikabrik interrupted, bringing news.

Miraz would reach them just after dawn.

 

It was odd, Caspian reflected. Here he was on his knees, legs unable to carry him as the sheer presence of the Great Lion in front of them bore down on him, and all he could focus on was the girl deep asleep between Aslan’s feet. Trumpkin had been thrown into the air, Nikabrik had wept like a child, and Trufflehunter had been allowed to touch Aslan’s flank, and yet the girl hadn’t as much as stirred.

“ _Lu_!”

It was Peter.

Caspian turned, fell awkwardly to the side as his muscles failed him, but still saw as Peter rushed past Aslan without acknowledgement to throw himself down at the girl’s side.

“Lucy!”

Aslan made a deep noise – almost a chuckle – and bent to nuzzle Peter’s head. “Rise, High King Peter. Your sister is quite well, only exhausted from taking on a great duty in the service of Narnia.”

Peter’s cheeks were wet as he looked up at Aslan. “So she was with you. I should’ve known – Lucy always follows in your footsteps.”

“Faith doesn’t come easily.” The words were neutral, but even Caspian could hear the stern reminder in them. “Come, son of Adam, and let me breathe on you. Much courage you have shown, but more courage still you will need to face what comes ahead.”

Caspian didn’t watch then, too afraid of what would come next. He had wished to meet the Great Lion, but now that the moment had come…

A hand appeared in front of his face. “Come,” Peter said as Caspian looked.

There was nothing more to be said. Caspian rose, and feeling as if he was facing a court of judgement, he approached Aslan. Aslan’s eyes seemed to pierce him, read every innermost thought – even those most shameful. It didn’t hurt however. No—it was almost… joyful?

“You have been brave, young Caspian,” Aslan noted. “The High King speaks well of you, and so do your people.”

Caspian burst out in tears.

The next he knew, his face was buried in a golden mane and it felt as if there was nothing more that could be wrong with the world.

 

He had not failed. Peter closed his eyes and let the tense wait for the other shoe to drop dissipate. His sister was fine, Edmund and Susan had raised an army that could face Miraz and win, and Caspian was growing into a person that could be the King that Narnia deserved. He had not failed, and Aslan had come.

“Doctor Cornelius told me that Aslan is not a tame lion,” Caspian said next to Peter. He had barely moved from Peter’s side at all since Aslan had arrived. “I’m not sure Aslan is a lion at all.”

Peter smiled briefly. “Aslan is Aslan.” Then, after a glance at Lucy, still asleep against Aslan’s side, he added, “You should talk to Lu—Queen Lucy—once she’s awake. She can tell you anything you want to know.”

“Does Aslan being here mean that we will win?” Caspian asked.

Peter shook his head. “It means that we have a fair chance. Aslan will not win the war for us—that is up to us. But—don’t you feel different having met him? Stronger?”

For a moment, Caspian said nothing. Then, “I feel as if I’m home.”

Peter laughed then. “And that, Caspian, is why you will make a good King.”

A King that could bring Narnia back to life.

 

Peter had remained at the top of the hill looking out over the battlefield as the others left to partake in the victory celebrations. Caspian had hesitated, and then stayed as well. Aslan had called him brave, but he didn’t feel as if he was. Perhaps he would feel that way if he finally did something he wanted – had wanted for a while.

“How is the arm?” he asked Peter, who startled. He had not noticed that Caspian had stayed behind.

“Healing.” Peter turned towards him. “How is yours?”

“Fine.” Trufflehunter had allowed him to remove the bandage before the battle. And even before that—Peter’s wound looked worse. “Are you sure—“

“It’s nothing to waste the Cordial on,” Peter said with emphasis. “Lu has enough people to care for as it is.”

Caspian dropped the subject, but made a mental note to check that Trufflehunter agreed with Peter’s judgement. “Do you remember what Aslan told me before he breathed on me? That I was brave?”

Peter smiled – bright and wide. “Before you wept in front of—“

Caspian stepped closer. Peter went quiet. They were nearly the same height, Caspian realised. It seemed almost incongruous – Peter always seemed a giant among dwarves.

It made what he did next easier.

“I decided that I am brave.” He met Peter’s eyes.

Then he kissed Peter, and it was not the chaste kiss of benefaction that Peter had given him before.

For a moment, Caspian thought he had misjudged. Then Peter’s hands settled against his hips and the kiss deepened.

 

They returned to the victory celebrations together, walking side by side. Two Kings, each powerful in their own way.

Caspian and Peter.

Kings of Narnia.


End file.
